Dracula Unleashed (11 page)

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Authors: Linda Mercury

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CHAPTER
21
The cool, rounded edges of the river rocks pounded into the grounds of the Chinese Garden promised “a foot massage with every step.” It was thought to stimulate the chi and encourage health.
Su needed all the chi she could get. She rocked back and forth on the shady walkway, pressing the sore points on the ball of her foot into the mosaic-like designs.
Her mother would be arriving at the Chinese Garden in fifteen minutes. For once, Su did not insist on the Japanese Garden, which was larger, but lacked places to sit and converse. For once, Brigit did not insist on a darkened Irish bar with sports screens all over the walls.
For the first time in their lives, they had found a neutral ground in tea, moon cakes, and graceful furniture.
Su leaned her arms against a railing. Dragonflies hummed over Zither Lake, and small red fish darted in and out of the fading lotus flowers.
“It's very peaceful here,” her mother said.
If it hadn't been broad daylight, Su would have believed her mother to be a vampire to move so quietly.
“Yes.”
A group of schoolchildren ran across one of the bridges, screaming about the fish.
Brigit gave her frosty smile. Su awkwardly extended her hand. Her mother shook it with her normal firm grip.
“You read the journals,” Brigit commented, her stance and tone completely neutral.
Su's mother was renowned for her ability to hide her thoughts and feelings. Su internally winced at how she must have been responsible for some of that repression.
“I swear I didn't know. Why didn't Grandpa say something?” Su burst out.
Brigit held her hand up, palm out in a stop gesture. “My father had many positive qualities. Being able to admit he was wrong was not one of them.” She shrugged. “Shall we have tea and discuss inconsequential things?”
CHAPTER
22
Istanbul
As a human, Vlad Dracul II destroyed armies and criminals, bringing peace at a sword's edge. At the end of his mortal life, he defied Death itself to complete his revenge against the Ottomans.
Every attempt to unify Europe had felt the Impaler's influence. His battles were always the hardest fought, contained the cleverest tactics. Napoleon's famous tactics were heavily influenced by his mysterious “Dark General,” commonly believed to be Dracula.
The revealing of paranormal beings, led by Dracula, was nearly enough to win World War Two for the Axis. Many military theorists speculate how the war would have ended if Vlad had been given his head. Every scenario imaginable has the world ruled by the stern grip of this vampire.
It is for the best Dracula died. Nations would truly tremble if he were alive today.
—
Dracula: The Biography
by Dr. Constance
Brodhacker
When Valerie Tate emerged from Vlad Tepes's death, no one told her twice that a woman couldn't do what she wanted. From war criminals to garden variety bullies, Valerie was the strong hand of retribution. She walked the most dangerous streets, stalked and killed those who preyed on the helpless. She never gave up in her relentless pursuit of her goals.
Which was why she was now wrapped in a seven by ten foot Turkish rug, wearing only red satin ribbon that bound her from her ankles to her eyes.
Tonight's goal: pleasure. The scenario: Cleopatra being delivered to Julius Caesar in a carpet. Plutarch probably made the story up, but it had heated Valerie's imagination since she first read it as a child.
The silk of the rug rubbed on her exposed skin like a woman's soft hair. She was slung over John's shoulder, a dead weight he handled with ease. Each of his steps jolted her skin against the lush surfaces of her enclosure. The friction set her body into a slow, luxurious undulation.
“Enter, Apollodorus,” Lance announced from behind closed doors.
She heard John turn the knob to their apartment's front door.
“I bring you a present from Cleopatra VII Philopator, Caesar,” John said. He knelt and dropped the rug to the floor. With a mighty push, he unrolled the blue and green carpet. Valerie lay in the middle of the twining patterns, blindfolded and vulnerable.
In her youth, Valerie had been assaulted, terrorized with sex. Today, she would give her lovers everything she had.
Lance stopped her motion with what felt to be a genuine hobnailed boot. He would be a sucker for authenticity.
Her tormentors were dead, while she was alive. She would no longer resist allowing Lance or John to overpower her. She felt light, pliant, and eager to explore their desires with no limits, no fear, no holding back.
She was truly unleashed.
 
 
The note read,
“Your castle awaits, my Queen.”
A trail of candles wound her through his loft. Instead of ending in his bedroom as she had anticipated, they led her to Umar's living room.
The glass and steel condo should have been stark and modern. Desert hawks didn't like the cold, though. Red glass Moroccan lamps bathed the room in warm, passionate light. A cream-and-jade-colored oriental rug covered the smooth cement floor. Coordinating pillows offered comfortable reclining areas.
Tonight, though, the thing that really captured her attention was the low white structure in the middle of the room. The two low divans had been stripped of their cushions. An enormous pale green cover had been tossed over the top, creating the ultimate child's fort.
The candles pointed to the opening in the front of the fort. Welcoming light from the tentlike structure poured onto the deep pile of the rug. Su bit her lip in pleasure at his playful seduction.
Driven by the unfamiliar yet sensuous sounds of Middle Eastern drumming, Su dropped her coat and purse, kicked off her shoes, and knelt down to peer inside the luxuriously appointed cave.
Even more cushions graced the interior. A small mother-of-pearl inlaid table held a glass of bourbon and a bottle of sparkling water. It was far more comfortable than their temporary haven under his desk.
The biggest surprise was Umar, dressed in a pair of soft silk trousers that draped perfectly over his hefty cock, revealing the curve as it lay against his thigh, and throwing the rim of his head as it pressed against his foreskin. Leather hawk's jesses dangled from his wrists and ankles.
“Welcome to your domain, my Queen, my Light of the Universe.”
Su slithered into the tent and reclined upon some stacked cushions. He handed her the bourbon.
“Yes, my loyal subject? You have a request?”
“Let me tell you a story,” he said. “A story that has no ending, a story of a man and his love for a woman.”
See how Valerie and Lance's story began in Linda Mercury's
DRACULA'S SECRET
A Kensington e-book exclusive on sale now.
 
Read on for a special preview!
CHAPTER
1
Portland, Oregon
Halloween Night, Present Day
 
His sun pierced her night.
Valerie Tate stopped dead at the sudden stabbing pain and clapped her leather gloved hands over her sensitive eyes. She'd been running full speed from rooftop to rooftop in an effort to bypass the clogged holiday traffic between her and her destination. Portland's nighttime rain had merely cloaked her progress instead of slowing her down.
The flare of light, brighter than a magnesium bomb exploding in her face, now left her stunned, blind, and helpless. Anyone looking out over the skyline could see her. Not something she wanted.
She crouched, one foot poised over the lip of a building's crown. One wrong step and she'd fall off. It wouldn't be a fatal drop, but it would certainly slow her down. Better to risk being seen up here, prancing about like some crazed musical number, than sprawled out on the pavement in the middle of the Halloween crowd.
Valerie probed the skin on her face. Unlike contact with magnesium and direct sunlight, she hadn't blistered or burned in response. Good. That would have ruined her evening's plans. Much depended on her appearance not gathering too much attention.
Blood seeped from under her eyelids in response to the too-bright shine. Under the cover of her palms, she blinked away the achingly intense spots floating before her vision.
How could this happen? Once, a magnesium bomb had detonated next to her. Even as her skin peeled back, she had kept going. Nothing broke her concentration during a mission. Six hundred years of killing had taught her well.
Shock gave way to curiosity. Curiosity then unraveled her single-minded determination. She wiped the tears of blood off of her face and carefully squinted against the glare that surrounded the figure below. As her vision cleared, she saw him, surrounded by the aura that had halted her.
What was he, this man three stories below her, innocently checking his text messages on a silver BlackBerry? As her eyes adapted, she studied him with all her undead senses.
Not soap, not cologne, but his essence was the second thing that struck her. The aroma of cloves, sweet and hot, rammed up her nose like a fist, overwhelming the car exhaust and excrement odors rising from busy Burnside Avenue. The fiery smell transformed her anger into something far more complicated. Hunger beyond blood clenched her stomach and parts below. Startled, she stood. She licked her teeth, swallowed her desire, and studied his face.
The endless Northwest autumn drizzle plastered blond hair to his skull. He glanced up from his little machine, obviously aware that someone watched him. To Valerie's surprise, he found her, even up high with her black clothes against the black night.
She locked her knees against a shudder when she saw his blue eyes. Not any shade of blue, but the color of icy seas under the full moon. Even covered in worn jeans and a frayed but high-end sweatshirt, his broad-shouldered body made her mouth pucker, ready to kiss. A generous bulge in his pants caught her attention, lewdly contrasting to the brightness of his innocent shine.
It didn't make sense. His perfect, confident posture and chiseled, patrician features marked him as the kind who should be swinging a tennis racket on some blue-blood tennis court.
Why this strong of a reaction to this man on this rainy night? She had sworn off sex for more decades than she cared to remember. Thousands of handsome, well-built, and brave women and men had passed in front of her over the years.
The most she'd felt was a few flickers of interest. Now, her thighs flexed against the hot kernel between her legs.
The headlights from a bus lit him up even brighter. And she saw his true nature.
A warrior, home from the front lines, sick of violence but caught in it. That eye-searing shine was not innocence, for lines of hard-won worldly knowledge bracketed his sensually shaped lips. Exhaustion creased the corners of those extravagantly gorgeous eyes and lived between his eyebrows. Instead of purity, he lit the night with the ferocity of his spirit.
He turned away from her to face the door of the building behind him, denial in every line of his body.
Valerie sucked in an unnecessary breath of cold, clove-scented air.
Only the best of humanity had that shine: people who were dedicated to making the world better for everyone, not just themselves. She'd seen that glow in such disparate people from Mother Teresa to a pubescent boy protecting two toddler girls from a rapist in Rwanda.
This one had a Higher Calling.
Bad news.
Higher Callings meant certain failure to their vehicles. She exhaled.
Poverty still ran rampant in Kolkata. Rwanda still seethed with heart-rending pain, even though Valerie killed the rapist and saved the children. Valerie twisted her lips at the memory. He'd tasted terrible. There simply wasn't enough mouthwash in the world to get rid of that foul aftertaste.
Worse, those well-meaning Higher Calling fools always tried to suck her into their causes. Those idiots dared to claim her fight, her redemption, was less worthy than their dreams.
No promise of sunshine was worth that risk. The steady rain cooled her arousal. Time to go.
The moon broke through the patchy cloud cover, illuminating the night. Disregarding gravity's pull, she leaned forward. It was too short of a drop to concern her now that she could see.
Darkness lay against his purity like rotted fruit on snow.
Valerie's own darkness quickened at what those throbbing spots revealed. Her damned soul laughed at the irony. It was inevitable now. This man had secrets of his own. Things he thought no one could forgive.
Just like her.
As though he couldn't help himself, he glanced over his shoulder at her. His own up and down glance caught her as surely as a wasp in hot tar. She knew what he saw—a slender woman dressed in an expensive black coat and trousers. Red lipstick, pale skin, nails painted in dark burgundy. Gray suede designer shoes, from some outrageous but already forgotten New York store. Feminine, dark, and very upper-class. This illusion would allow her to penetrate the security around tonight's target.
Passion sucked at her skin the moment he touched her with extended senses. The man was able to search her aura? Her nipples tightened into tight pearls.
The heat stroked and clung to her, ratcheting her arousal higher. Only fierce willpower kept her from an orgasm. Two could play this game. She returned his brazen, searing stare. When she lowered her eyelids and softened her lips, he shifted to the balls of his feet.
How could this be? Very few humans could probe secrets the way paranormal beings could. What was he to have such extraordinary powers?

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